some little warning, for did not the
old coach road to the North pass through our town and district? and did
not the old semaphore stand there on the summit above Royston Heath,
waiting to lift its clumsy wooden arms to spell out the signal of the
coming woe by day? By night was the pile for the beacon fire, towards
which, before going to bed, the inhabitants of every village and hamlet
in the valley turned their eyes, expecting to see the beacon-light
flash forth the dread intelligence to answering hills in the distance!
Only the simple act of striking a flint and steel by night, or lifting
of the arm of the newly invented semaphore telegraph by day, seemed to
separate the issues of peaceful rural life and the ruthless invasion of
War! The dread was a real and oppressive one, such as we cannot
possibly realize to-day!

But, amidst the fearful presages of War and Invasion, the affair had
its lighter side, and provoked not a little of comedy and burlesque.
In the Library of the British Museum there is an extremely interesting
collection of squibs! satirical ballads, mock play-bills, &c., upon the
expected appearance of Buonaparte, with caricatures by Gillray and
others. In searching through such a collection, it is difficult to
stay the hand in making extracts, but a few must suffice. In one the
First Consul is styled "the new Moses," and there is a list of his Ten
Commandments; in another there is a Catechism as to who is Buonaparte,
with not very flattering answers. In others there are sketches of the
imaginary entry of Napoleon with graphic scenes of pillage, &c., and
again adaptations of theatrical language, such as--

"In rehearsal, Theatre Royal of the United Kingdom. Some dark, foggy
night, about November next, will be attempted by a Strolling Company of
French Vagrants, an Old Pantomimic Farce, called Harlequin's Invasion,
or the Disappointed Banditti."

In others, M. Buonaparte was announced as Principal Buffo, "being his
first (and most likely his last) appearance on the Stage!" Perhaps the
best of this ephemeral literature were lines which found their way in
lighter moments into the songs on our village greens; and, sung to the
fine old air of the "Blue Bells of Scotland," helped for the moment to
banish anxiety over some alehouse bench!

When, and O when, does this little Boney come?
Perhaps he'll come in August! Perhaps he'll stay at home;
But it's O in my heart, how I'll hide him should he